


The Fire

by rosncrntz



Category: Dickensian (TV)
Genre: Amelia is pretty clueless, F/M, Jaggers deserves better tbh, Kinda dirty thoughts but not really, Longing, One Shot, Unresolved Romantic Tension, unspoken feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 18:45:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12894417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosncrntz/pseuds/rosncrntz
Summary: Amelia Havisham comes for advice. Jaggers reflects on his rather inconvenient feelings for the young Miss Havisham. Work is becoming rather difficult; so is sleep.





	The Fire

The smell of a woodfire had been an eternal comfort. In his days at Eton, he would close his eyes and breathe in the smell of musk and coals, warm and slow, and the dark panelling and tall, cold windows would turn to smoke and burn away. When work vexed him, or when he felt his mind slipping into guilt, he would sit beside the fireplace and wait until the crackling overpowered him. In the night, the sound would lull him, and, in the day, it would drown everything else out. But there was something bitter in the smell of the fireplace that day: a cold and dreary January day as it was, the fire should have felt a blessing, but it did not. The smell made a poison in his nostrils, and his head began to throb as he turned the pages of his journal, and dared not turn his eye up to meet the woman across the desk.

This woman was Amelia Havisham and it just so happened that Amelia Havisham had come across a great deal of money and property that she had not been expecting and it just so happened that he was acting as her lawyer and so it just so happened that she was seeking him for advice. But, as it happened, Mr Jaggers – who prided himself on unaffected advice in the profession to which he had devoted body and soul – struggled in spite of himself to offer his best services to this Miss Havisham, as there was too much of his _heart_ in the work of it.

It just so happened that Mr Jaggers found himself quite in love with Miss Amelia Havisham.

The phrase seemed wrong, foolish, juvenile: to be _in love_. Love was child’s play. A game one plays in youth’s hot summers when the frazzled brain thinks itself adult. To a child, adults play at love. But, to an adult, it becomes clear that adults work, and do little playing at all. And Jaggers often felt quite comfortable in work. Work suited him. There were no feelings in his work. There was no emotion in the sound of rustling paper, in the smell of old books, in the dark fabrics of a funeral or the clink of metal frames as he placed his glasses on dark, varnished surfaces. He did not at all like the idea of being in love. But the idea of it was worlds away from the feeling of it.

For the feeling of being in love was something euphoric and tragic. One could feel one’s entire world collapse beneath their feet, and yet their stomach seemed to rise into their mouth. The end of the world seemed nigh, but the beginning of their life seemed to be upon them. Mr Jaggers felt he was simultaneously trembling with excitement and waning with fear.

His heart seemed to mock him; it leapt so incessantly, so vigorously, so flittingly. His palms sweated, and he wiped his palms frantically on the fabric of his trousers, careful not to let her see, before reaching out a nervous hand to shake hers. His eyes fell on her without him even realising it. She was something bewitching. She had sent him out to sea, somewhere he could not understand, and he was left to dry in the sun.

Miss Amelia Havisham did not know the power she held.

Amelia Havisham was just the sort of woman he had imagined: the one who had framed herself as a portrait, pearlescent and noble, in the walls of his mind which only occasionally wandered from rationality to the ignorant world of the _Romantic_. These immature longings only ever came upon him in the autumn months, and only when he was on the cusp of sleep, and only when he had indulged in rather too much alcohol. This, by principle, was rare – as Jaggers was not disposed to the vice of alcoholism. It disagreed with him. It was a choice. And, yet, sometimes, he would indulge, and then the vision would come. And the vision, unmistakably, was in a form very like hers.

A sharpness to the face like that of a fine woodland creature, but softened at the edges, like the Grecian Venus, so that her skin took on an almost ethereal quality. He felt he romanticised her excessively. It was unprofessional of him to do so. But her hair, dark and get capturing the light as if she was in possession of it. She had a cleverness to her face that he found led him to distraction, and she had a bashful smile that showed no symmetry and yet was every bit illuminating. She was erudite, importantly, and good-hearted. A little headstrong, perhaps, for his quieter way of life, but that would pose no threat to him. And she was a little spoilt in her own way, but that would be of no harm. Not in the long run.

This was where his thoughts ended, with the hasty remembrance that he was getting carried away with himself. There was no need to even contemplate a ‘long run’, because there would never be any connection, engagement, or marriage. The thought was so distant and absurd that Mr Jaggers could not think of it. Even imagination could not lead him there. Not even in a dream.

He had dreamt of her. But every dream was unsatisfactory. Every dream left him breathless and disturbed. He wished he would never dream of that woman again; but he always did.

On this day, however, in January, Miss Amelia Havisham was scratching the back of her hand with nervousness, her nerves fraught, and her brow was furrowed. She had come to Mr Jaggers, yet again, to discuss her late father’s will. And Mr Jaggers, yet again, was bound to give her the same advice. But he kept seeing her nonetheless.

“But, perhaps, we could negotiate a larger share for Arthur. He is so awfully upset. It would help him greatly. If I were to lend it to him, personally, with the money that I have been bestowed. Then it is my prerogative, surely!”

“Miss Havisham… your brother may not take kindly to your charity,” he implored, barely tearing a moment’s gaze from the lines of his journal. Amelia was used to this sort of aloof treatment. It did not bother her, so she continued,

“Yes, but surely it is better than what he has now. He lodges somewhere in the city and will scarcely come home. I do not know where he gets to, nor what sort of ruffians he finds himself connected to.”

“And you think giving him a cut of your money, which you must have earned, will raise him from the destitution that he has willingly brought himself to? I doubt it, Miss Havisham, and I would sooner guess that the money you bestow will be squandered on the cards and alcohol that he has shown himself partial to,” explained Jaggers, in his usual artless tone of reason and pragmatism. Amelia was becoming vexed at the lawyer’s inability to budge in the slightest way.

“But, Mr Jaggers, you must understand that I wish to help him!”

“There are far too many arrogant young boys with too much money on their hands. We don’t need another.”

“Mr Jaggers, I hasten to remind you that you are referring to my _brother_ ,” Amelia snapped and Jaggers wilted into the safety of the shadows. He chastised himself. He brought his forefinger to his lips, and bit down with his teeth – hard – on the side of it. The skin stung. Never hard enough to bleed, but painful enough to feel it.

“Of course, Miss Havisham,” he said, politely bowing his head, and returning his sore finger to his lap, “I apologise.” He leafed further forward in his book, and yet did not read it, but sat in agonised silence, waiting for her to say something. Anything.

“And, besides, I do not know why you assume I should be better equipped to run the estate and handle the money.”

“You are your father’s daughter. That is reason enough for me to have every faith in you.” No. That was falsehoods coming from a lawyer’s mouth. He had faith in her because he knew that she was perfectly capable and perfectly just, and he knew that she was perfectly capable and perfectly just because he knew her, and he knew her because he cared for her, and he cared for her because he loved her, and he loved her because he could do nothing else.

Who could not have loved such a woman? His heart would have to be made of stone and ice and, though he often wished it were that way, and would lead others to believe it was so, his heart was flesh and blood as any other, and could just as easily take to bleeding or crying out.

And that is what it began to do. He hated himself for it. He hated her for it. How could he possibly hate her? Was this burning in his heart, in his lungs, creeping through the gaps in his ribs – was this hate? Or love? Was the line between them so thin that he, a man educated as he was, could not tell the difference between the two?

“You seem to have the faith in me, Mr Jaggers, that I cannot find myself,” Amelia said, half to herself, and half to a ghost in the room without a name to speak of. Jaggers, however, was present, and her words seemed to cut him like a razor blade.

The office was as silent as death. He could hear the ticking of the clock, and the rumble of wheels and rabble of voices from the street outside, and he could faintly hear the scattering of footsteps from the corridor outside, but every noise seemed indistinct and distant as noises do when one is submerged under the water. He could hear his own heart beating, the rush of blood in his ears, and the soft rise and fall of Amelia’s breath. Had he heard it quicken? Or was it an active imagination that betrayed his humanity? He closed his journal, drew his glasses on to his head, and turned his eyes up to her.

It almost hurt to look at her.

He had thought, only once, of how he could act upon the desires that troubled him. It made him no different to the base and the animal, he thought, the _need_ for things. The need for alcohol, he had resisted. The need for company, he had avoided. The need for sensual pleasures seemed alien to him. And, still, when he looked upon this woman, what he felt was _need_. No matter how hard he clenched his fists, how often he washed his hands, how many fires he breathed in: that need was strong and strange. He would never force himself upon her. That would make him no better than the beasts. But, if she were willing, and the time were right, and if he tried, he could kiss her. That was all. That would be enough. Just to lean across, a small bend of his head, a tilt of her chin, a closing of eyes, and a meeting of souls.

He wondered how her perfume would smell, when he was that close to her. How soft her lips would be. How divine. How the kiss would be so quick and perfect and fleeting that it would not make a single noise, and no one would know. No one need know, if they were to kiss in the privacy of his office.

He could do it now, he thought. What would stop them?

Her gaze turned from the hands folded uncomfortably in her lap to his own eyes, and the force of her gaze made him feel guilty, and he silenced the Romantic wanderings. There was far too much stopping them. It was foolish of him to even contemplate.

The fire was his own.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm rewatching Dickensian for advent and all my Jaggers/Amelia feelings are coming back. I wrote this short, random, waffle-y fic just for fun, but I'm very interested in writing more for this ship. So, if you have ANY prompts or things you'd like to see, just let me know!


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